


Between Breaths

by seraphim_grace



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:36:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/seraphim_grace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford's so used to seeing the man Nagi becomes he doesn't always see the boy he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> this is a victim of weiss timelining – it's between Dramatic Precious Holy children and Fort Laufen in which nagi ages three years in about three months – the rub is nagi's 13 and Aya doesn't know about Schwarz yet.

The boy's lips were chapped, Nagi noticed, licking his own in response, as the other boy put his hand to his cheek, “close your eyes,” he said, “it's easier that way, the first time.”

And the world exploded.

The explosion had been impressive. The room had exploded outwards starting with the cameras and two way mirrors and all those small items, including debris, and broken glass and the other boy on the bed lifted in an unconscious fetal position, the rough grey army blanket fluttering behind him in a telekinetic wind like a super hero's cape. And in the centre, stood slightly above the floor, though he probably didn't realise it, was a slender thirteen year old boy with his head cast back and the force of gods unleashed around him. 

He ripped the door from its frame with a terrible screech of metal tearing in ways it was not meant to do, and as he tilted his head Crawford looked at him and grinned “what kept you?” he asked.

 

Nagi was characteristically silent in the car but he kept his hands pooled in his lap and not bleeping away on some hand-held infernal machine. “Hey, liebchen,” Schuldig asks leaning over the back of his seat “you letting your küken die? You're normally all about the feeding yanno, they don't lay big eggs if you don't feed them.”

“Something like that,” Nagi answered quietly, but didn't look up. 

“That game had me worried,” Schuldig grinned, all teeth and cheekbones, “a boy your age farming, shouldn't you be shooting german vampire demon robots or something.”

“nah,” he answered calmly without blinking or moving his head from the window, “I just keep them around to make sure I eat and call me liebchen.”

From his seat next to Nagi Farfarello laughed and Crawford thought that perhaps that was the worst of it. He was wrong, but even he deluded himself sometimes.

 

Nagi didn't eat his dinner, even though Schuldig had decided as Schwarz Mommy that the boy needed spoiled and had gone to Mcdonalds and got him his favourites and a thick banana milkshake he didn't touch. Farfarello had no such compunctions greedily eating everything he could grab and then going to the fridge looking for the cold noodles left over from last night's binge. He ate a lot, burping and then drinking an entire litre of orange juice straight from the carton. “I'll be off to bed,” then he said, to sleep off his meal, Crawford thought, being as he had just eaten his entire weight in crap. 

Schuldig put his hands on his hips, “you're not getting up from that table, junge herr, until you've eaten every bite.” And there was none of the usual vitriol in it, instead, Crawford worried that it sounded more like concern and he couldn't shake the image of Nagi's face when he ripped open the metal door, with all the detritus and debris around him, stood there like a god cloaked in his power. He had been terrified, Crawford realised belatedly. He was thirteen years old, and he had... 

Crawford nearly choked on his fries. 

He was thirteen.

He was very mature but the mission had. He just needed some time, Crawford thought, but couldn't stop the uncomfortable gnawing at his centre. No, he convinced himself. He was wrong, Nagi was strong and nothing had happened. Crawford had known nothing would happen, but Nagi wasn't the perfect warrior he would be, yet, he was thirteen.

“I'm going for a bath.” Schuldig announced, undoing his bandanna and draping it over Nagi's head. “Eat that.” He said looking at the almost untouched meal in front of him.

Crawford, having finished his own crumpled the wrappers in his hand and walked past Nagi, pouring himself some coffee and then as he went to return to the table Nagi clutched his jacket tails with thin fingers, “Crawford,” he said, and his voice was as thin as he was. “I know I agreed, but,” he stopped himself, looking at the food on the table. “Can I not do that again? please.” And it sounded like he was going to break and Crawford wanted to turn around and wrap his arms around the boy to tell him it was all right and he was sorry, and how he had forgotten Nagi wasn't the man he was going to be yet but he didn't know how, so he said nothing instead, and just nodded.

Nagi seemed to take that as the encouragement he needed and ate the burger in front of him with small trembling bites. “I'm going out,” Crawford said, “I'll be back in the morning. Don't let Schuldig baby you.” Nagi offered him a tired smile as if to say but nothing I say will stop it, or perhaps but I like it, and Crawford was glad that Schuldig had stopped looking at the boy like he was some amazing plush toy with powers and just for no reason glomping him, the dry asides that took their place make it feel more like a family. It was why there was a small porcupine turning knots in his stomach. Family was letting people have power over you, and Nagi sat eating his dinner in tiny little hamster bites like the sword of damocles.

 

Crawford kept two lovers. There was Nora, an American To-dai post-grad in forensic anthropology who was entirely too smart for her own good and asked no questions because she simply didn't care, which helped with her appeal and then there was Aya. 

Nora knew about Aya but Aya did not know about Nora. 

Crawford sat behind the wheel of his car thinking, Nora would ask him questions, she would listen, she would offer him answers. She'd make him popcorn and blow him through the late night news. She'd tell him, anthropologically, what was happening and never asked for more than she had, which made Crawford treasure her. Nora loved dead people, she just used Crawford for sex.

On the other hand was Aya, beautiful, brilliant shy Aya who pretended he was only a florist, and listened because he wanted to believe and knew when to keep quiet. He lied and allowed Crawford his lies. Of course Crawford knew who he was, who he would be, but that didn't matter when his hair smelt of strawberries and this was just snatched time. It would end when Aya found out the truth. 

Strangely the porcupine revolving in his stomach at the thought of what he had done to Nagi didn't even blink at the thought of betraying Aya.

Aya it was then.

 

Aya meets him at the door, low slung jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt that's seen better days. His hair is pleasantly sleep mussed, Crawford must have woken him when he called ahead. He doesn't say anything, just goes back into his small apartment knowing Crawford will follow.

He turns back, his twilight eyes flashing in the near dark in the room before he tugs the sweatshirt off to show strong planes of his back and the rippling off his shoulder muscles before he lies down on the bed and thumbs open the button of his jeans.

This, Crawford thinks, I want this, I want flesh and meat and skin and teeth and hair and if I bend him over just right and I put my fingers in his mouth just the way I want, I can forget the look on Nagi's face and the fingers holding my jacket.

Aya loves to kiss, he'd happily kiss all night, something Nora cannot be bothered with, which is one of the reasons he keeps them both seperate. He has a momentary thought of Aya with Nora's heavier thighs wrapped around his waist and it's enough to make Crawford hard, and he expects the porcupine inside him to move, to complain; but it doesn't.

Aya's tongue is fruit sweet, lingering orange that hides between his teeth as he arches his body up to Crawford, undoing his shirt and pushing it back off his shoulders, because there are no words today there's just skin and flesh and need and want and the press of Crawford's erection through the silk slacks into Aya's jeans and grind.

Aya doesn't seperate their mouths as he skins out of his jeans and briefs, throwing them to the side and then turning his attention to the fly of Crawford's pants and reaches inside knowing Crawford is hot and heavy and hard and it feels so good in Aya's palm that Crawford groans against his mouth and Aya grins back and bites his lip and then he lines their hips up again and grind, and the delicious dry friction of hair and cock and skin and grind.

Crawford comes quickly, his hands scratching at Aya's back, in the crease between thigh and groin and Aya is right behind him, with sloppy kisses and Crawford wants to go again, to burn out the porcupine in Aya's skin and the taste of his mouth and to bend him over like a pretzel and fuck him, fuck him hard and not just this dry sticky grind and Aya knows it too because his eyes are dusk and Crawford knows Nagi will forgive him, has already forgiven him, and that he just wants to drown in Aya's skin, in the place where the shower smell lingers and the sweat is sweet and he forgets, in the well of flesh, just who he is.


End file.
